Offerings
by Mantis FA
Summary: While visiting the Burrow over Winter Break in an alternate timeline of Harry's fifth year, Harry and Cho visit Cedric Diggory's grave to pay their respects in the manner of Cho's ancestors.


Author's Note: I composed this story for FictionAlley's 2003 Winter Holiday Challenge: write a story of up to 2,003 words using one or more elements shown in the teaser trailer for the film of _Prisoner of Azkaban_; the elements I chose were snow and origami. It is set during an alternate version of Harry's fifth year, following the events of my novella _Harry Potter and the Headsman's Hostage_, which establishes the relationship between Harry and Cho portrayed here.

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Offerings

"Are you sure you want to fly, Harry?" asked Molly Weasley anxiously. "It's awfully cold..."

"We'll be fine," Harry replied. "It's not far, and we'll dress warmly."

"All right. I'll have another pot of tea waiting for you when you get back."

"Thanks very much, Mrs. Weasley."

They were sipping hot tea in the small, pleasantly cluttered kitchen of the Burrow. Hermione, Ron, Ginny, and the twins were in the garden, making the most of the foot-deep blanket of soft snow which had fallen the previous night; from the excited shouts he heard filtering through the window, they had progressed from making snowmen to throwing snowballs at each other. Ordinarily, Harry would have joined them, but this morning he had other things on his mind.

Having finished his cup, Harry stood up. "I think I'll check on Cho," he said. "She ought to be about ready to go by now."

He climbed the uneven, crazily zig-zagging staircase to the third-floor landing and knocked on the door to Ginny's room. "Come in," called a light, soprano voice from inside.

He opened the door and stepped into the cramped bedroom. Between the bunkbeds, writing desk, and dresser, there was almost no floor space, and what there was was largely taken up by a sleeping bag and pillows, proclaiming that three girls currently shared the tiny room.

Only one was present at the moment. She sat at the desk, carefully copying Chinese ideograms from an open book in front of her onto a sheet of fine rice paper. "I'm almost done, Harry," she said. "I'm sorry it's taking so long; I'm a bit out of practice at writing _wenyan_."

"No hurry," Harry said, coming up behind her and resting a hand on her shoulder. She made another couple of graceful strokes with her quill, then turned her head to kiss his fingers. "What are you writing?" he asked.

She glanced up at him, her expression unusually grave. "I'll tell you afterwards, all right? It's bad luck to talk about it beforehand."

"All right. I'm going to go get dressed. I'll meet you out front."

"Okay, I'll be down in ten minutes or so." She turned back to her calligraphy, and Harry hurried down to the second floor. On his previous visits to the Burrow, he had always stayed in Ron's room, up on the fifth floor, but this year Mrs. Weasley had insisted on installing him in the second-floor room Percy had vacated when he moved up to London. Percy and his parents still weren't speaking, and he had not come home for Christmas.

Harry kicked off his shoes and pulled on thick woolen socks over his cotton ones, then stuffed his feet into a pair of heavy, waterproof winter boots. He shrugged into his sheepskin jacket and wrapped a red and gold woolen scarf around his neck. Then he opened his trunk and took out a roll of oilskin, about a foot long and four inches thick, placing it carefully in one of the jacket's voluminous pockets. Finally, he donned a pair of earmuffs and fur-lined leather gloves. Thus armored against the cold, he marched downstairs and out the door, picking up his Firebolt in the front hall on his way out.

It had stopped snowing, but the sky was still a leaden gray, and it looked like it might start again at any moment. Harry sat on the stoop, watching his breath form puffs of mist in the cold air, as he waited for Cho to join him. True to her word, she stepped out the door after about ten minutes, bundled up even more heavily than he was; he could just see her dark, almond eyes peering out at him between her blue and bronze scarf and a thick wool cap.

"Ready to go?" he asked her. She nodded. Harry mounted his Firebolt, and Cho threw a leg over the broomstick right behind him and wrapped her arms around his chest. He kicked off, and they rose quickly into the air, the powerful racing broom barely affected by the unaccustomed weight of a second rider. Cho held on tightly and leaned into him, peering over his shoulder at the scenery ahead as they accelerated away from the Burrow. Even through all the layers of winter clothing, he could feel her warmth against his back.

Three other broom riders rose from the tumbledown shed in the front yard and took up positions flanking Harry and Cho at a respectful distance. Arthur Weasley, Remus Lupin, and Mad-Eye Moody were not about to allow Harry to fly unescorted while Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters might be hunting him. After the terrible events of the previous summer, Harry was not inclined to object, especially when he had Cho with him. His own life he might willingly risk, but hers, never.

They sailed over an apple orchard, the leafless trees looking thin and ghostly in their heavy mantles of snow, then crossed the frozen River Otter and steered toward a small church steeple in the distance. The Anglican Church of St. Catchpole was a small, impeccably whitewashed brick building. This morning it looked as though it could have been built up from the snow-covered ground around it, except for its stained-glass windows and steep slate roof. Harry brought the Firebolt to a gentle landing in the church's small but well-kept graveyard. Lupin and Mr. Weasley settled at opposite corners of the graveyard and took up sentry positions, while Moody circled overhead, his magical eye presumably searching in all directions for any hint of danger.

Harry felt a moment of gratitude for the diligence of the church groundskeeper; this tidy place bore little resemblance to that other graveyard that still haunted his nightmares, where he had seen Cedric Diggory die and Lord Voldemort rise to new and terrible life. Given the purpose of this visit, it was impossible not to think of that night, but he was glad not to be reminded of it any more than necessary.

"Over here," said Cho quietly, leading the way to a simple granite headstone near the north end of the graveyard. The stone's polished surface looked almost new, as indeed it was. Inscribed on it were the words, "Cedric Ryan Diggory, beloved son, b. August 5, 1978, d. June 24, 1995." Below that, in silvery lettering that no Muggle could see, was added, "Captain of Quidditch, Seeker, and Triwizard Champion. Hufflepuff House 1989-1995." At the foot of the stone stood a large bronze vase, in which flowers might be placed in warmer weather. Harry shivered slightly as he recognized its shape: it was a replica of the Triwizard Cup, the coveted prize which had become a deadly trap for Cedric and himself.

Harry hung back a little as Cho knelt to brush the snow out of the bronze cup. When it was clear, she pulled off her wool mittens, stuffed them in her pockets, and took the sheet of Chinese calligraphy from inside her cloak. She carefully folded the rice paper into the shape of a swan and set it in the cup, then stood and took a step back. Harry took the oilskin from his pocket and unrolled it to reveal a dozen small pieces of splintered wood. He knelt beside the cup and arranged them in a tepee over the paper swan.

As he stood, Cho began to recite something in Mandarin, her voice too soft for Harry to catch the words, even if he could have understood them. When she had done, she whispered, "Farewell, Cedric. Rest easy, my love."

"You were the true Champion, Cedric," Harry said. "And a true friend, even if we never got to know each other well. I'll never forget what you did for me. I'm sorry I couldn't--" His voice caught, and he reached up to wipe his eyes with a gloved hand. "Rest easy, my friend," he finished.

He and Cho drew their wands and pointed them at the wood and paper. "_Incendio_," they said in unison. Golden fire flared within the cup, consuming the swan instantly, and licking up to ignite the dry, well-seasoned wood. In moments there was nothing left but ash and a wisp of smoke drifting lazily away in the freezing air.

They turned from the grave and mounted Harry's broom again. Once again their escort followed them at a distance, allowing them a semblance of privacy. They did not speak until they were back at the Burrow and had shed their heavy winter gear in the front hall. Then they sat side-by-side on the living room couch. Mrs. Weasley brought them their tea, then, sensing that they wanted to be alone, retreated to the kitchen. They sipped the tea in silence for a while, looking at the Weasleys' Christmas tree -- a bushy spruce festooned with tinsel, tiny magical lights, and a wild profusion of ornaments the seven Weasley children had made over the years, surrounded by colorfully-wrapped packages of all shapes and sizes.

At last Harry broke the silence. "What did you write?" he asked.

"An old Chinese love poem," Cho replied. She closed her eyes and began to recite, her clear soprano voice making the Mandarin phrases sound like music:

"Ji mo shen gui,

Rou chang yi cun chou qian lu.

Xi chun chun qu,

Ji dian cui hua yu.

Yi bian lan gan,

Zhi shi wu qing xu.

Ren he chu?

Lian tian fang cao,

Wang duan gui lai lu."

"It's beautiful," Harry said, when she had finished. "What does it mean?"

"It's a bit hard to translate -- so many of the concepts are different. But I think it would go something like this:

Lonely in my secluded chamber,

A thousand sorrows fill every inch of my sensitive being.

Regretting that spring has so soon passed,

That rain drops have hastened the falling flowers,

I lean over the balustrade,

Weary and depressed.

Where is my beloved?

Only the fading grassland stretches endlessly toward the horizon;

Anxiously I watch the road for your return."

"It's beautiful," Harry repeated. "Beautiful and sad. It suits you."

She smiled up at him -- a fragile smile, but a smile nonetheless. "I'm not so sad anymore," she said. "Not when I'm with you."

Harry gazed into her eyes for a moment, then took her in his arms and held her close, breathing in the sweet scent of her hair as she hugged him back. "I love you," he murmured.

"I love you too," she replied. "Thank you for coming with me... for understanding. I really needed that, I think."

"I think maybe I needed it too," said Harry thoughtfully. "You were right about that ceremony. I feel... lighter, somehow, as if I've set down a burden I didn't know I was carrying."

She pulled back to look at him. "Yes," she said after a moment. "That's exactly how it feels." She paused, then added, "Was yours what I think it was?"

"Probably," Harry said. "It was all that was left of my old Nimbus 2000 after my match with him. It was the best thing I could think of."

She nodded. "That's... fitting, I think. Cedric would have appreciated it. I think playing Quidditch on a broom that good would be pretty close to his idea of heaven."

They sat a little while longer in silence. Finally, Cho said, "Well. Do you want to get bundled up again and go see what the others are doing out in the garden? I think I heard Ginny say something at breakfast about skating on the pond..."

"Sounds like fun," said Harry. "Let's go."

They rose from the couch and went to the front hall to collect their coats, scarves, and other winter gear. Glancing out the window, Harry saw that it was snowing again, tiny, glittering flakes drifting gently down from the clouds. For the first time that day, he smiled.

It was going to be a good Christmas.

* * *

Note: I had originally intended to have Cho quote one of Qingzhao's poems to Harry in _Headsman's Hostage_. However, while searching for translations on the web, I ran across the opening chapter of Orson Scott Card's Xenocide, which reminded me of the Chinese funerary custom of writing messages or "gifts" for the departed on rice paper and burning them in the funeral pyre. Cedric, of course, would not have had a Chinese-style funeral, but I thought that Cho might still want to perform a version of the ceremony for him -- and since the Diggorys, like the Weasleys, live in Ottery St. Catchpole, I thought she might do so while visiting the Burrow with Harry over Winter Holiday.


End file.
